


Marionette

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder's former mentor remembers his number one student. Mild bondage, implied nonconsensual sex.





	Marionette

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Marionette by Griffin Grimes

"Marionette" (1/1) by Griffin Grimes  
Category: V, Mulder/Patterson slash Rating: NC-17  
Distribution: MSSS/MKRA and Gossamer, yes; all other lists or archives with author's permission only. This is being posted to the XSlash list by a friend; please archive with my name and Hotmail address only. I will post this to ATXC.  
Spoilers: Grotesque  
Keyword: Pre-XF  
Warning: mild bondage. May seem non-consensual, but it's not. Really...they told me so afterward!   
Disclaimer: The characters belong to CC, 10-13, and Fox, but I take the blame for the whole perverted idea of this story. No financial gain will be made from this, and no harm is meant.   
Summary: Mulder's former mentor remembers his number one student.  
Each piece of feedback and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated and gratefully answered. Please send any and all comments to: .

* * *

"Marionette"  
by Griffin Grimes

I didn't do it. I keep telling them that, but no one listens. The only one who might believe me, who *would* believe me, is the one who put me here. Mulder.

Mulder. I thought I had made him, that I had created him in my own image, but I was wrong. Only God could take credit for a creation like that, and God has nothing to do with me. Nothing at all; not anymore, at least.

But even if I can't claim the responsibility for his making, I did mold him in his beginning. Maybe, maybe I could have molded him more gently than I had, with more care and precision and caution, and he would have stayed, under my tutelage, and been truly great. I could have basked in his greatness.... No, we would have shone together, learned mentor and his cultivated prot�g�. Cultivated like a beautiful hothouse orchid, rare and worth more than...more than anything. He could have meant more than anything to me. But such treasures are more delicate than they look. Oh, if only...

What am I thinking? He was just a student to me. A very special student, given, the most promising one I'd ever had. Mulder! God, that boy...he *was* little more than a boy then. Like a parent who never truly forgets the child their child once was, I will always think of him that way, imagine him as he was under my wing. That *boy* will haunt me forever.

I have to stay here forever; I can't escape the memories. The thoughts. Not that I want to escape them; they're all I have. But the fact is, I *can't* escape them, not even in my dreams.

Especially in my dreams.

                 *************

I watch him at work, profiling his first case. A case other more experienced men have struggled with for months. He's coming close; I can smell it. He goes to get more coffee, then brushes by me on his way back to his desk, finally aware of my presence. I can smell him, too. He greets me, calls me Bill. I already feel excited, simply from the sight and smell and acknowledgement of Mulder.

It's late, well past midnight, and he and I are the only ones left in the building. He sits down again, gracefully, quietly. As he was in daytime, he is alone in a dark corner, now darker from the night. He's even more handsome, tempting, in the dark. Only one small study lamp, focused on his pages of handwritten notes, provides a glow that illuminates his face.

I find some excuse to go to him, like I have at other opportune times in the past. But this time, I will have the nerve to pull the strings, and he will respond the way I want him to. Because I know that this is my dream world, and in that world I am the puppeteer. Mulder will be my marionette.

                 *************

They wake me to give me more pills to make my mind like one who sleeps, yet is awake. The pills are to dull my dreams, as well as to make me unfocused and placid when I cannot dream.

Why must they always wake me? Why can't they just let me be, and let me dream. Dreams are all I have, and daily they take them from me. That's part of the hell of this place. The keepers are your clock, and they control your dreaming and your waking. Even your dreams do not stay your own.

Now I've learned to hide the pills, so I can at least dream and plan about what I will do with Mulder. I *will* get out of here some day, one way or another, and my first order of business will be him. I tell no one, and feign the drugged stupor they want for me. So I can plan for Mulder.

Mulder. He was incredible -- *is* incredible, I'm sure. Although I no longer can watch him, not even like I did, secretly and from afar, after he left me. They won't let me. No news, no contact with the outside world. Special precautions, claimed to be "therapeutic". They just want to torture me, I know.

For years I watched him, though. Before I was put here for crimes I didn't commit, crimes that *creature* did...not me. I secretly but avidly followed his career, asking others about his latest exploits, paying close yet carefully dispassionate attention when others gossiped about the infamous "Spooky". He *was* spooky to me, too, but not because he believed in aliens and auras. He saw the art so well. *That* was spooky. He saw things none of the other young men I recruited could even touch mentally.

But as much as I admire his abilities, I also am fascinated by *him*. His face, his body, his youth. Yes, I think that most of all. I would like to steal that youth from him, that youth which is long gone in me. Now, as I saw when I brought him in to work one last time with me in the Mostow case, the one that put me here, it is about to leave him, as well. It is inevitable for all of us.

But he was so young then...

                 *************

The light illuminates his face, and I arrive to stand close behind his seated form. He looks up, over his shoulder at me. He smiles. It's rare to see that smile, even now when he is youthful and relatively unburdened. I feel honored to have it given to me freely. A smile just for me.

He respects me now. That will never change, and he will respect me forever. I will be more careful in this world, and see that he stays with me.

I say something to him. What I say doesn't matter; it's just my ruse to be there with him, standing close. He replies, and what he says doesn't matter, either. I press in even closer, my growing crotch tight against the back of his light office swivel chair, my hand placed firmly, reassuringly on his right shoulder. I praise him for his work.

He is not used to praise, I can tell. He is silent for a moment, registering my words, then replies in a quiet, hesitant voice: "Thanks, Bill." His eyes do not leave their focus on his notes. He is uncomfortable with my attention, but I sense he needs it, too. I don't want him to be uncomfortable; I want to see his grateful face. I know it's in there somewhere, and I will be the one to bring it forth.

Now I do what I had wanted to do back then, that night on that first case. My hand slowly slides down from his shoulder, carefully, lightly trailing down his chest. His eyes shut tightly, head bent down; he does not move, but I feel him tremble slightly at my touch. His heart under my hand beats hard, his pulse races, his breathing becomes shallow. I am oh, so careful this time. "Is this what you want?" I ask, sure his will is mine. I am sure I hear a "yes" in his sigh.

His tie already undone and draped around his neck, my fingers deftly loosen a button on his shirt, and enter. I feel the warmth underneath; lean forward, bending over him so slightly. His head slowly drops back, soft brown hair resting on my stomach, there for me to touch, to stroke. His eyes still closed, now I see the dampness on his cheek.

I will be careful, as careful as a sculptor, and he will be mine to control and mold.

                 *************

I must get out of here. This is driving me further into insanity. Yes, I've accepted that I'm insane. I still didn't do what they say I did -- it wasn't me, I keep telling them -- but I'm still insane. Because of Mulder. Because of the constant longing for the unattainable.

Still, insanity does not mean stupidity. I'm as sharp as I ever was, now that I'm off the mind-numbing medication. I've hidden the drugs they keep giving me, sticking them under my tongue so that, even though they check, they know nothing of my deception. Then, as I pretend to sleep, the pills go into a hole in my pillow. Which is where I will keep the medium of my escape. Until it's time. Tomorrow night, the eve of our anniversary. Two years since he rejected me one last time and sent me to this Hell.

                 *************

His lips are parted; they look soft and inviting. Still from behind, I am emboldened and bend down further to test their softness. They are even more so than I imagined, and I hungrily press my tongue between them, my hand leaving his soft hair to wrap under his chin, forcing his head back further. My right hand ventures further, down his firm stomach, unbuckling his belt and undoing his fly to get under his waistband. Reaching further down to grasp his erection. It is nearly as eager as mine.

He is laid out flat in the chair now, head back, mouth pressed to mine, hips resting on the edge of his seat, long legs stretched and splayed under the desk. His arms hang limply behind him, nearly touching the ground. He is taking it all in, giving nothing back. Selfish bastard.

This enrages me, and I greedily take my hands from my ministrations to grasp his upper arms, pinning them back behind the chair. All thought of caution is gone from me now. I don't know why I ever thought self-control would be possible.

He is surprised at my sudden change from gentle initiator to rough aggressor. Still saying nothing, he begins to resist, breaking away from my kiss and struggling to get up. Loosening my grip, I bring my hands to again rest lightly on his arms, and let him arise from the chair, actually helping him up, as if to let him go. But I can't let him go. Not again.

Just as he is standing, still in front of me but now no longer in the chair, I grab him again, his arms pinned back by my stronger grasp, and push him down on the desk in front of us. The chair rolls back out of the way, and notes flutter to the ground.

He remains nonverbal; only grunts escape him as he attempts to free his arms and to lift his torso off the desk. Somehow I know that this is the way he wants it. It is the way I want it. I quietly whisper into his ear: "Is this what you want?" I'm sure I hear "yes" in his struggling breath.

                 *************

During the night, someone else's screams awake me. At first I am annoyed at the distraction, but then I remember my plan. Night is when they rarely watch me, so it is a good time to work on my means of escape. My dream only motivates me to continue crafting it. I take the piece of metal I have hidden and slowly, lovingly, sharpen it against the bed frame. After an hour or so I tire, and go back to sleep; back to the dream.

                 *************

I hold Mulder in front of me, bending him over the desk. My hips are pressed hard into his muscular backside, keeping him steady. With one hand I take my belt off, sliding it free of the loops, and fasten it tightly around his upper arms, making mine available for other things. Making sure he stays under my control. He begins rutting rhythmically into the side of the desk, so I use the belt to pull him further back, hips inches away from the edge of the desk. He will not find relief without me.

With one quick, smooth tug, I pull his dress pants and grey boxers down around his ankles, then off completely, taking his shoes with them. His shirttail covers his firm, round cheeks, but I can't resist reaching under the fabric to stroke them once with both hands, lovingly, anticipating what is to come, before further preparing my prey.

I easily find a roll of duct tape in a cabinet. Dreams can be so convenient, can't they? But I do know that is where it is kept in that office, and that detail becomes part of my plan. I grab Mulder's legs, pulling them up around my waist. Then I busy myself with taping each ankle securely to a leg on either side of the desk, keeping his legs three feet apart and preventing him from using the floor as leverage to scoot his hips back up on the desk. I don't want him hurrying things along too much.

Now I remember the tie hanging loose over his shoulders, and bring the ends around, letting him see the band of material and giving him a moment to consider it. He says nothing, only struggling more and grunting louder. Much louder. I employ it as a gag and fasten the ends to the leather truss behind him, forcing his head back and further disabling him.

I step back for the first time since taking full charge of Mulder, pausing to admire my handiwork. Mulder fights in vain to look around at me, impatient for me to begin, but his precarious position and the gag that is doubling as a harness will not allow him to turn around.

He is incredibly beautiful like this: head and arms twisted behind him, causing his back to arch and his chest to pull slightly off the desk; legs spread wide and helpless; ass totally at my mercy. His futile struggling and the muffled sounds coming through the gag only intensify my erection, making it impossible to contain any longer. Finally, I pull my own pants down below my hips, adding saliva to the milky pre-cum that is covering the tip of my shaft to provide a bit more lubrication. I move forward, pressing my bare, urgent groin against his now exposed buttocks; but I delay the inevitable for one more moment so I can caress his strong young back. Then I enter him.

                 *************

It is morning now, the guards going around on their daily mission to wake everyone and remind us of our imprisonment. But today is the day, I remind myself. My last day to plan before I take action tonight. And I finally recognize that this dream has been at the heart of my plan all along.

                 *************

Although he is excruciatingly tight, it's not long before I'm all the way inside, and his grunts join a pace with mine. I go at him like an animal, and I feel his vitality gradually enter my body. So young, he has enough to share with me.

My hands hold tightly onto the belt wrapped around his arms and across his shoulder blades, the knuckles white and the palms damp enough to make holding on difficult. But I never let go, because I am in control of him, and refuse to relinquish that power. Not now, not ever.

His arms move with the pull of the leather strap, his body following. With each thrust, he gives an immediate response; I know it is pleasure. Pleasure at the sensations I'm creating in him, and pleasure in the total control he has given to me. He is truly a puppet in my hands. Our syncopated movements, our orchestrated sounds, finally crescendo in blinding whiteness, total momentary silence. Just this once, though, he is the one to pull the strings, with me responding immediately after.

I know I can never let him leave me again.

                 *************

I await the guard. The one who takes me to the showers every night; the one I've trained to see me as a placid old man, no longer a threat. I am ready as I'll ever be, and my long days and nights of planning have made me eager to see them unfold. It must be done tonight, because tomorrow is the anniversary. Tomorrow I'll have Mulder back under me, and he will not betray me again. He will stay with me until he dies.

The guard unlocks the door. I arise from my cot; the implement so painstakingly honed on that cot is hidden in one hand. I keep my head cast down so he cannot see the bright anticipation in my eyes.

I have to be careful. Oh, so careful.

The end  
***********************

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